


What Dreams May Come

by hickorysleeve



Category: Raven Cycle - Maggie Stiefvater
Genre: Character Study, Consensual Underage Sex, Headcanon, M/M, The Dream Thieves Spoilers, Tumblr made me do it, Underage Drug Use, background jiang/prokopenko
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-28
Updated: 2018-01-28
Packaged: 2019-03-10 16:55:41
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 930
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13505793
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hickorysleeve/pseuds/hickorysleeve
Summary: i’m all about kavinsky being all mean and rough and terrible and demanding but i also kinda need him to like tie up proko’s wrists with a soft old tshirt and call him baby boy and tell him he looks like a dream.





	What Dreams May Come

**Author's Note:**

  * For [fox-meets-wolf (bluebear)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/bluebear/gifts).



> Loosely related to [For In That Sleep of Death](https://archiveofourown.org/works/6237058). Very loosely.

He looks like a nightmare, like he hasn’t slept in days, strung out and thin on the edges of everything, like he’s been fighting with Lynch or Skov or the whole damn world. His mother. The Evo. Everything. There’s blood in the corner of his mouth and the corner of his eye, and he crouches in Proko’s window, looking at the graveyard, like a gargoyle.

Proko is glad Jiang left an hour ago. When Kav’s like this, he’s never sure if he’ll laugh something like that off, or throw a fucking fit. He grabs him by the front of his shirt and the back of his neck and tries to be silent as he hauls him inside of his bedroom.

Kav grabs him by the throat, but it’s a brief thing. His hands are always so surprisingly soft. They’ve barely ever seen a hard day of work. He doesn’t work on his cars, the toughest thing they touch are the rough fabric of jeans and the spark of fire and the edge of a knife sometimes. He’s a spoiled thing and he always has been, and Proko hates it, a little bit, because he feels blistered next to it, especially when Kav grabs him like that, thumb pressed up under his jaw for a moment.

They bully toward the bed.

“I’m dreaming,” Kav whispers.

“You’re not, man,” Proko assures.

“You so sure?”

They tumble, legs askew, legs tangling. He weighs barely anything these days, and Proko worries sometimes, on these long nights when Kav’s abandoned them to chase Lynch like some sort of kicked dog, like some sort of lovesick thing. Can’t he see? Lynch is never going to run back. Lynch is never going to see. But all Kav can do is run at him like the world is ending. Like it’s already ended.

Kav pushes his fingers into Proko’s hair, nose against his pulse. He tugs a little bit. He breathes him in. His Bulgarian is words that Proko has never really learned, too far West to be the Ukrainian spoken fluently in the Prokopenko household, but familiar in the lyrical rhythm of Eastern Europe. It’s all a slur tonight. Something in Ukrainian does slip out. His name. _Illya, Illya, Illyushya._

“Yosif,” Proko whispers.

“I’m dreaming,” Kav whispers back.

It’s how they make it okay.

In the dark of night, with no lights on, in the quiet, they move in hurried, nervous fits and starts. They have to be quiet here. Proko’s family isn’t rich like Kavinsky’s or Skov’s, and if his father knew–if he knew, God, Proko doesn’t want to think of that. They had that fight once, he thinks. He thinks. He can’t remember if they had that fight. It makes his head hurt a little, whenever he does. It makes Kav’s eyes go dark and distant, when he quietly asks in the dark. So he never does.

Tonight, they fumble and tug and they wrestle, quietly. Proko tries to touch Kav’s cheeks, just once, tries to pull him in. Kav turns his head away. He pushes Proko’s hands and face away from him, grabs his discarded, too-expensive t-shirt and loops it around his wrists and ties them together, palm to hand.

There are no marks tonight. Not from Kav. He finds one that Jiang left and lingers against it.

“Yosif,” Proko whispers.

“I made you so good,” Kav mused. His hands trailed, heavy, soft, from his ribs to his hips. “So good. How could anyone possibly resist you?”

His mouth felt like rapture, sucking him down, licking at his cock and his balls, going further than that to press obscene, open-mouthed kisses against his hole. Proko bit the inside of his arm to keep quiet. “Shit,” he gasped. “Oh, fuck.”

Kav worked him over slowly, like he was meant to live down there between Proko’s thighs. There was all that soft, affectionate Bulgarian again. Proko didn’t know how he could speak at a time like this. He was reduced to nonsense. When he did speak, it was nothing but filth–swearing, barely in English any more; begging softly; mostly just mewling as he rode the air and Kav’s filthy tongue.

Kav climbed on top of him. His hips were thin and bony. He’d lost weight. He was covered in bruises, dark in the pale moonlight. He looked like he’d been cut out of stone. He sank down on Proko like Proko was made to fit inside him, like this was exactly how it was supposed to go, like it was always supposed to be like this, and he looked rapturous doing it. Proko’s fingers curled against the t-shirt knotted against his wrists.

“Yosif,” he whispered, more urgently. His balls were up against his body. He wasn’t going to last like this.

“Fuck,” Kav breathed. He was moving, riding him, hands on Proko’s chest to pin him down but gentle, so gentle. His fingers came up, cupped Proko’s cheeks. He leaned down and almost kissed him. “Fuck, baby boy, you’re so good. I made you so good.”

Proko’s hips snapped up, a little mean. Kav moaned against his mouth, long eyelashes a fan against his high cheekbones.

He lifted his bound arms, wrapped them across the back of Kav’s neck, and held onto him as he fucked into him, chasing pleasure, chasing need. Kav clung to his hair, gasping and moaning and riding back. They were hardly trying to be quiet now.

“Baby boy,” Kav whispered against his mouth. “Illyushya.”

Proko came, kissing Kav’s mouth like he owned him, rather than the other way around.


End file.
